What is THAT!
by Belief Among Unrest
Summary: Isabelle has enrolled herself in...egad! A mundane cooking class!


"No way are you actually going through with this Isabelle," Alec argued, while his sister sat calmly in a chair across the library.

"Why can't you believe that I'm serious?" Isabelle shot back, her face a picture of serene detachment.

"Because you hate being around mundane's, and it's a cooking class for mundane's." Alec said simply.

Yes, Isabelle was enrolling herself in a cooking class. FOR MUNDANE'S. Alec knew she couldn't go through with it though. She would never be able to cook, or get along with normal humans. Chances were she'd end up killing one within the first twenty minutes.

"I can get along just fine with them," Isabelle quarreled back. "And I'm sick of having no respect in the kitchen here. Don't you actually want an edible dinner, Alexander?"

"I am perfectly content with having take-out every night."

"For the rest of your life?" She asked incredulously.

Alec contemplated that for a moment. "It's worth it," he said at last.

"Look," Isabelle said, her patience beginning to wear, "I'm taking this class. And there's nothing you can say that is going to change my mind. Lessons start tomorrow, and I will be there, ready to learn."

"Izzy," Alec said. "You've turned the simplest of foods into monstrous disasters. I've never tasted such vile _boxed_ macaroni in my life. Do you see how I have my doubts?"

"Oh please," She pressed on. "Some of these things are out of my control. And you were supposed to call me when the timer went off, but no, you were passed out with your head on the table, mouth agape, drooling into a platter of vegetables!"

Alec looked sheepish. "There was also the time you turned those burgers into bricks and-"

Isabelle cut him off. "Don't hang that over me, those people shouldn't have been outside when they went through the roof."

Alec was about to respond, saying that she didn't need to freak out when he told her that her hair was sticking up somewhat weirdly, when Jace and Clary walked in the room.

"Stop you're bickering," Jace said in mock scolding.

"Jace," snapped Alec irritably. "Isabelle here has apparently enlisted herself in a cooking class starting tomorrow."

Clary managed to stifle a laugh, but Jace couldn't hold it in. He hooted with mirth at the thought of Izzy in a mundane cooking class. When he finally settled down, he saw Alec glaring at him.

"Oh come on man," he said humorously. "She won't last. Remember? The brick-burgers ring a bell? That blue stuff that was supposed to be clam sauce? Oh! How about the pasta we used to strangle that demon!"

"Yeah, yeah, we all remember. And I'm right here, if you hadn't noticed," Isabelle said crossly.

"We noticed," muttered Jace.

"Oh, leave her alone," said Clary, coming to her defense. "This may work." The boys stared at her with incredulity, and she fought back another laugh.

"Say what you want; I'm doing it." Isabelle said hotly.

"Izzy-" began Alec futilely.

"Enough Alexander. I'm going to bed." And with that, Isabelle marched from the room with a loud "Humph."

"I give it ten minutes," said Clary once she was gone.

"I give it five," said Alec.

"I say she walks in, kills a guy, and then leaves," said Jace.

Clary smacked his shoulder . . . and then agreed after a moment of hesitation.

Isabelle was up at eight o' clock, bouncy and prepared.

"I'm off," she announced, grabbing a banana and skipping off toward the door.

"Are you sure?" Alec called out. He was answered by the slamming of a door. "I'm shocked she didn't change her mind after she left for bed," he stated when she was gone.

"Me too," said Clary, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I wonder what we're having for dinner," said Jace absently.

"Taki's," replied Alec, and he smiled into his mug.

"All right class," declared the mundie teacher, Mrs. Brittle, as she nudged the tip of her glasses up to the crook of her nose. "Today we are learning how to make ceviche, a Peruvian fish delicacy. Turn to section 3, page 11, and begin.

Isabelle took a deep breath, and turned to section 3, page 11. There was a very appetizing looking fish on a small picture in the right hand corner, with a chief grinning a stupid and overly giddy smile. Already, she was having her doubts about coming here. No, she told herself quickly. No, she could do this. She was Isabelle Lightwood for crying out loud. But then, maybe that was the problem. No, no, she could do this. She could do anything. With that thought, she picked up her fish with a long fork, and plopped it on a plate.

Yeah, this would be easy.

"Time's up!" Mrs. Brittle announced, waving a spatula in the air with flourish. "Put your finished products down; when I call your name, please present your steak to the class. Mary Johnson!" She called.

The first five girls had beautifully cooked, wonderfully decorated ceviche, with assorted spices and herbs that made the whole room smell amazing.

"Isabelle!" The teacher called after about twenty minutes of presentation.

Well, here we go.

Isabelle brought her food up to the front of the class, and displayed it proudly out in front of her.

A collective gasp was sounded throughout the room. A girl got up and ran to the bathroom. One in the back yelled, "What is that?" The teacher covered her nose with her hand, and squinted her watery eyes shut.

Isabelle stared at them in confusion, and then down at her "meal."

It was a brownish rock, with green and yellow liquids running down the sides. When she sniffed it, she recoiled from the smell as if someone had smacked her in the nose. It was like raw sewage, mixed with charred skin. The "ceviche" was chipping off burning flakes around the outside, revealing some dark green gunk huddled underneath it. How had she managed to do that?

"What, pray tell, is that?" Mrs. Brittle asked in a nasally tone, as if her nose was suddenly blocked with mucous, as she asked the most difficult of questions.

Isabelle looked up guiltily. "The assignment?" She asked, although she was pretty sure this didn't qualify as any fish, exactly.

Clearly, this isn't what the teacher wanted to hear. "Get out," she told her. "That is not what I asked you to cook—that's not even food!"

Isabelle sighed and put the plate down, preparing to leave. Alec was right. As she took a step forward, Mrs. Brittle cried out. "Take that thing with you!" Reluctantly, she picked up the inedible poison, and walked out of there fighting tears. How could she be that bad at cooking?

Back at the Institute, Isabelle stood behind the stove with a batch of cookies she'd just pulled out of the oven. They looked good, but of course, she messed them up. Alec strode in, getting ready to deliver the lecture of a lifetime. He stopped when he saw her holding the tray.

"Hey," he said, surprised. "Those actually look edible. Guess that class did some good. Can I try one?"

Isabelle, who was just about to throw the toxic crap out, smiled lightly. "Sure," she said sweetly.

Alec took the cookie, and was about to bite into it, when he stopped. "You know, I'm sorry about what I said earlier. If you want to learn to cook, it's your decision. And I fully support it."

Isabelle looked mildly stunned, and then she smiled a real smile. "Thanks Alec, that means a lot. But I'm not going back. And," she added, snatching the cookie from his grasp, as he was about to take a bite. "These are no different than the ones I cooked last week. Chipped teeth, Alec, chipped teeth."

They both burst out laughing, while Alec, phone in hand, was already getting ready to call a pizza.


End file.
